


After

by Jamjar88



Category: Pearl Jam
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamjar88/pseuds/Jamjar88
Summary: From a Stone/Eddie slash request on Tumblr. This is set after the 1992 Milan show where Eddie went postal at the audience...SMUT/SLASH WARNING
Relationships: Stone Gossard/Eddie Vedder
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	After

I knew as soon as we got off stage that Stone was angry; he practically threw his Les Paul at the tech and disappeared, leaving the rest of us staring after him. Dave tried to make a stupid joke as usual, I ignored him, grabbed the towel from on top of one of the amps and wandered slowly down the hallway towards the dressing rooms. For once we didn’t all have to cram in one room, they’d put handwritten notes on the doors and when I saw Stone’s name and mine earlier, I felt that tug of irritation, _perfect_. We’d been on the road a long time now, and let’s just say we weren’t exactly gelling.

I took a deep breath, pushed open the door. He was there, splashing his face with water from the little sink in the corner of the dark room. I felt my heart pick up with adrenaline, ready for the fight. With Stone it was always bitter words, contempt, perfectly aimed barbs that could leave you hurting for days. I knew he hated me for not being Andy; hated my surfer hair, my awkwardness, my rage. He didn’t get me at all. I guess I didn’t get him either.

“That was a fucking trip,” I said, watching him, his long wavy hair damp around his shoulders, his features scowling as he dried his face, tossed the towel onto the floor. 

He ignored me, started shoving stuff in his bag. I caught myself in the smudged mirror, my hair a soaked mess, sweat gleaming off me. I could feel the little fingerprint bruises coming up on my arms. My whole body was still vibrating from the show. Stone somehow seemed always composed, he was the only one who never ripped his shirt off onstage, never got in fights with security. 

“What’s up, man?” I said, it was lame but I just needed him to look at me. I felt that crunch of anxiety growing in me, unstoppable.

“You can’t pull shit like that,”he said quietly, coldly, shaking his head a little. 

“Like…?”

“You cant just like, spit at the fucking audience Ed. You can’t get in there and scream about giving people their money back. I mean, Jesus -“ he raked a hand through his hair, pulling at the tangles. “This isn’t a fucking joke, man. Do you even get that?”

“They were _hurting_ people-“

“You need to stop.”

“It’s our _job_ , man, we’re watching it happen!”

He laughed coldly, and I felt a rush of anger. “Oh, actually you’re right - it’s what Fugazi would want us to do.”

“Hey, _fuck_ you,” I said, standing my ground.

He looked at me then, the space between us seemed so goddamn huge. I knew we were coming from different places, I knew maybe we would never work it out. I also knew that one of us was gonna have to break, to bend, or the band couldn’t survive. But there was the familiar cloud of shame, creeping over me. Sometimes it felt like I fucked up everything i touched. Was I gonna fuck this up too? 

“Your job is to _sing_. Just try and remember that, ok?”he said, turning to go.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

I have a fury in me. He should have known that by now. Our eyes locked. There was always something going on behind his eyes, that shifting hazel-green, always calculating. I didn’t flinch, I was not gonna let him roll over me. Not today. 

And yet - I felt that strange pull, like always. It had been there since the first day in the basement of the gallery, when the two of us stayed into the night, searching for some common ground, trying shit out, trying to resurrect riffs he wrote for a dead guy and make my faltering lyrics stick. We weren’t _friends_ , it was never exactly easy. But I wanted him to like me, I guess respect me, to give me a chance, to _see_ me. I wanted _something_ from him - and it had been killing me for a while now.

“Get your shit together,” he said.

Neither of us moved. There was a tension between us that was like a rope pulled taut, both of us holding an end, one of us had to let go. I was so aware of our breathing, the energy and frustration in that room. The way his shirt clung to his chest, the little divot in his bottom lip. Things I tried not to notice every day. He saw me looking. I didn’t fucking care if he saw. 

Then, he went to the door, pulled the shaky lock across. Turned back to me. He was beautiful. So different to me, to anyone I’d ever known.

“What are you-“I started, heart pounding.

And then suddenly his mouth was on mine, his hands in my hair, pulling. Nearly 2 years of frustrations in that kiss, all the shit we bottled up inside, I knew we both did because we were both all over each other now, his hands on my body, mine tugging at his shirt which he finally yanked off, our mouths exploring anywhere we could reach, fingers bruising skin, ending up on the hard little couch that lined the wall. Sometimes, when I first came to Seattle and felt so out of place I wanted to curl up inside myself, I just wanted to _be_ him: that throwaway confidence, his unselfconsciousness. Right there in that shitty little dressing room, it was like that again, I wanted to crawl inside him, get as close as I could. 

He was so fucking beautiful. And I liked how rough he was, I wanted that. I don’t know what it was but I’d have let him do anything to me at all. We didn’t look at each other, we didn’t waste a moment. His fingertips grazed over my stomach, I felt so fucking alive, I wanted him to feel what I was feeling. He was so hard already, I grasped him and went to work, felt him bite my shoulder as he pressed up against me, not so composed anymore. Then his hand in my boxers, those talented fingers gripping my erection, making me groan out loud. I didn’t care who heard. I had a handful of his long pretty hair, when I pulled he gasped, so I did it again. When we stopped for a moment, both so close to the edge, painfully aware of how little time we had, of the need to stop and forget this had ever happened, we were both panting, both caught up. 

“We can’t do this,” he said, barely audible. 

Then he kissed me again, our bodies grinding against each other, and I murmured “shut the fuck up Stone” before moving down his body, taking him in my mouth and finishing him, my whole body on fire as his body thrust beneath me. When he was done he pushed me onto my back, got me off with both hands, watching me the whole time. The release went through my whole body, for the first time ever it was like a wall came down between Stone and me

My eyes followed him when he stood up, shaking a little like I was, went to wash his hands and threw me a towel, which I caught. His long body moving in the dim light, a stillness in him I never normally got to see. I cleaned up and lay there, knowing I had to get up, get dressed, get the fuck out, but it was like time had slowed down. 

“This is between us, OK?”he said, after a long moment. His tone a little softer now. Maybe. 

I thought about that first night in the basement of the gallery, him showing me how to play one of his songs, his concentration as he fiddled with the knobs on my guitar, taking it down a step to his tuning, his fingers placing mine on the frets. And me thinking _, I want to be anywhere near you. Let’s do this._ The next morning we had three finished songs to play the other guys. The music was never our problem.

“It’s cool,” I said, feeling my heartbeat calm down. And it was, I guess. 

It was just sex, it wasn’t something we even talked about between us. It was about what happened when we touched or looked at each other, the way we felt when the other wasn’t around. It was just sex. A feeling.


End file.
